Fire and Ice
by mysedai
Summary: After the death of her parents, Stella Bard moves to Escanaba, MI to live with her mysterious great-aunt Iris. At her new school, she meets Otis, a handsome loner, who she finds both irritating and irresistible.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

First off, let me just say that this fiction is canon, in that it will not contradict anything in the Twilight saga, (If I mess that up, I'll be counting on you, dear readers, to let me know) but it has nothing to do with the canon characters. This is an original story, and at best there might be an oblique reference to the Cullens in a few chapters. This is your fair warning; there will be no cameos by anybody that you know.

I had the idea for this story after rereading the series; for Twilight to work and be the story it is, all the stars just had to align themselves perfectly. There are some kind-of-ugly parts, but mostly, the perfect vampire met the perfect girl, they had a (mostly) perfect courtship, the perfect wedding, the perfect baby, and Bella became the perfect vampire. I love that about the story; it's a fairy tale. My story is not, and I hope that you will enjoy it for that.

Lastly, this is a work in progress; nothing here is final until I post the last chapter. There are still a few characters whose heads are on the chopping block, there are some details subject to change, you know, the usual. If I change anything, I will make a big note of it, and let you know.

Disclaimer: Twilight, and all the characters created therein are the property of Stephanie Meyers. The characters in this story are original, and as such are my own intellectual property.

Tributary Otis, lyrics by Roger Clyne

Well I've traveled,  
and I've seen the things I build, working  
Workin' to bring me down  
And I may be thirsty now  
But, I will go beyond this thirst  
And my tears I cry for you will all go dry  
So I lay down on the floor, turn on my radio  
Come on River Otis make me cry

'Cause I've been out all night  
And I had to give up the fight  
So come on River Otis make me cry  
Come on River Otis make me cry

Fire and Ice

Chapter One

Today is my last first day at a new school. Of that I was certain, and the certainty filled me with a sadness I never would have expected to accompany it. I gathered my satchel, an olive drab rucksack, from the passenger seat of my car, opened the door, and took a fortifying breath as I stepped out of the familiar interior into the parking lot of a school whose unfamiliarity is as familiar to me as the last school I attended.

In the three years of my high school career, I have attended seven different schools in three countries; I lost count of how many schools I attended in elementary and junior high schools. I suppose that most people would expect me to be socially stunted with a record like that, but truthfully, I've always had an easy time of meeting new people. Making new friends comes more easily to me than keeping old ones, which is the only thing that made all the moving bearable. I never had time to really stop and think about the people I'd left behind while I was busy learning new names, new faces, and new ways of life. Today, though, was different. Today, I would meet the people I'd graduate high school with, the people who would sign my yearbook, and, hopefully, the people I'd remember when I looked back on my teenage years. The difference was staggering.

As I walked toward the building, I wondered if not being able to count on moving soon would make me nervous about making friends. For the first time, if I messed up, there was no do-over just a few months away. The idea made me queasy, and I was sure my pale skin had a greenish tint to it as I approached the long, low building that loomed before me. I saw the faces of the other students as they studied me, and they looked forbidding and disapproving, rather than curious.

Then, the doors were opening, and I breathed the smell of the school as I entered the Escanaba Area High; it was a smell that is somehow the fundamentally the same as every other high school, yet intrinsically different. I knew this place; I remembered it, or another just like it. Today wasn't different or scary; it was just another first day. I felt the green sliding from my skin as easily as water when I stepped from a pool, a smile spreading across my face.

"Hi," I stopped the nearest student to me, a boy about my age, "I was wondering if you could help me find the front office. I'm new." I offered the last with a hint of apology. I could probably close my eyes and find the office; school buildings never have innovative floor plans, but experience taught me long ago that you only get to play the I'm-new-won't-you-please-take-me-under-your-wing card on the first day. After that, if you hadn't laid some groundwork towards making new friends, you were labeled an outsider. Being an outsider made it hard to fit in. Being new made it simple.

The boy looked at me with wide eyes. I noticed for the first time that he was sort of brown all over; brown hair, brown eyes, brown rimmed glasses. He wore khaki pants with a brown long-sleeved rugby shirt. I didn't take my eyes from his, but I guessed that if I looked at his shoes or his belt or his backpack they would also be brown. He recovered quickly, and smiled. "I'm Brad," he introduced himself, "where are you from?" The question he called to me as he walked away, I understood that he was leading me to the office, not trying to get away from the obvious friendliness in his voice.

"All over, really." I laughed, "My dad was in the military, so we never really stayed in one place too long. I was born in Chicago, though, and most recently, I lived in San Diego."

"California, eh? So, that explains all… that?" He waved his arm vaguely in my direction.

I laughed. "Maybe. Maybe, I just don't like earth tones."

"Ok, I had that coming," the smile was obvious, even though I couldn't see his face. Brown clothes aside, Brad could take a bit of teasing. We stopped next to a door with the word "Office" etched onto the glass in peeling gold letters that looked to have been put there in the 1950's. "It was nice to meet you…" He trailed off, waiting for me to supply my name.

"Stella," I said with a roll of my eyes, letting him know I knew how awful a name I'd been stuck with, "Stella Bard."

"I'll see you around… Stella." And, Brad slipped into the crowd and vanished.

I spotted a girls' lav just two doors down from the office and decided to make a quick stop before I went in to get myself registered. Three girls were preening in the mirror, so I walked into the nearest stall and sat down. I waited a moment, flushed the toilet and walked to the closest sink, shooting a small smile at them while I washed my hands. One of the girls smiled back, and then the trio left, leaving me to contemplate my reflection.

My always pale skin, a gift from my Irish mother, was clear, almost translucent, with faint blue undertones. Just a few freckles adorned my small, button nose. I always had issues with my nose; it was too small, too cute, for my taste. My whole life, I'd longed for my father's larger nose with all the character that came with it, but I was stuck with the pixie-ish one in the middle of my face. I had a small mouth to match my small nose, but I took some comfort in knowing that however small my mouth might be, at least my lips were full and soft-looking. My eyes sat atop high cheekbones, and they were easily my best feature. My other features all seemed to be miniature versions of regular features, but my eyes seemed twice the size you'd expect. They were almond-shaped, wide-set, and fringed with lashes that were impossibly dark, considering my pale coloring. The irises were a deep lavendar, shot through with gold flecks. Secretly, I thought they reminded me of Elizabeth Taylor's incredible eyes.

My face was framed in hair so blond it was almost white with shots of color streaking through. Sky blue and light purple marched randomly through my hair as it flowed thickly just past my shoulders. One small tendril broke free of the rest of the mass and fell across my right eye. It didn't matter what I did to restrain it, that lock would always break free and reclaim the space in front of my right eye as its personal domain.

The clothing I wore would have seemed casual in San Diego, but here, I realized, they stood out like a freshman's best new outfit on the first day of school. My blouse was turquoise satin and fitted like a ruffled tuxedo shirt from the bust up, and was a long tube of ribbed black material from my chest to the top of my jeans. My jeans were stylishly worn and faded with casually perfect tears around the knees. They fit like second skin along my slim hips and down my thighs before flaring out to the ground with a pair of matching turquoise pumps peeking out. Nobody would ever guess that these jeans had been worn into perfection, rather than purchased that way. The worn hems were from years of dragging the ground behind me, rather than the artful design of somebody from the GAP. Because I was so short, barely five feet three inches, almost all of my pants had well-worn hems. I almost never remembered to take my pants in before I wore them, so unless my mother snagged them first, they ended up frayed and ragged.

Images of my mother sprang to mind. Mom hemming my pants, or cutting my hair, or destroying the kitchen while making dinner. I used to joke that her food was good, but not really worth the clean up, and she would laugh. We laughed alike, she and I, with our eyes closed and our mouths wide open showing our straight teeth, the sound musical. I missed the sound of our laughs ringing out together, filling the kitchen.

I gave my head a clearing shake as I opened the door to the office and smiled at the woman behind the desk. "You must be Stella." She greeted me warmly, "We're glad to have you here. Now, everything is in order on our end, do you have the paperwork we mailed you?"

"Yes," I said, rummaging through my rucksack, "It's right here." I pulled out the expanding folder I used to hold a copy of my school records, immunization records, and medical records. When you move as often, and sometimes suddenly, as I do, you learn the value of keeping your own copies on hand. I removed the neatly paper clipped bundle of forms she requested and handed them to her.

"They're signed by your parents, correct?" She said absently as she thumbed through them.

"Uh, no." I said in a small voice, "My aunt signed them."

The lady looked up, surprised. "Sorry, sweetheart, but these have to be signed by your parents or legal guardian before we can let you enroll."

"My aunt is my guardian," I spoke softly, "My parents died three weeks ago. I have copies of their death certificates and the court orders awarding custody to my aunt, if you need them. She's my only surviving relative."

The woman's mouth made a horrified O. "No, no, that's not… necessary. I'm sorry about your parents." She trailed off awkwardly. One of my least favorite things about being an orphan, aside from the obvious, was that it made people feel uncomfortable around me. I hate awkward situations.

"Thank you." I said simply, taking my schedule from her. I had learned that thank you was the simplest response to expressions of sympathy. If you didn't elaborate, people were usually quick to change the subject. If they weren't, I was. "Uh, is there anybody who can show me where my first class is?"

"Of course there is, dear." The woman bustled from behind the desk, opened the office door and stopped a student at random, telling him where to take me.

The boy she stopped was beautiful. He was tall; probably a foot taller than me, and muscular. He was powerfully built, with wide shoulders and a broad chest that tapered down to a narrow waist. He looked like the sort of guy that had attained his physique through work, rather than working out. His mouth was full, and perhaps a bit too wide, with an impossibly high Cupid's bow; his nose looked as though it had been broken at some point, giving him a roguish look. His hair was just long enough to reveal curls that looked like they'd never seen the business end of anything more than a quick rake of his hand. At first glance, I thought his hair was a deep gold, but as he turned his head, the light played on it, showing hints of red. The effect made his hair seem like flames atop his head. A few days growth covered his high cheeks and chin, and heavy brows sat atop strange, golden eyes. The effect was surprisingly wolf-like. His sleeves of his button down shirt were rolled back to reveal sinewy forearms that ended in the beautiful, long-fingered hands of an artist. The first moment, when his spicy, scent hit me, I was speechless.

In the moment it took me to regain my composure, he turned away from me and began to walk down one of the crowded corridors, with a long, rangy stride. He looked behind once with a raised eyebrow and an expression that said he didn't have all day to wait for me, and I followed, my shorter legs working hard to keep up with him. Tall people, and their ability to walk quickly without trying, have always irritated me. Well, tall people coupled with my own stature, at least, had always bothered me.

He stopped in front of a door, presumably the one to my class, but I'd been a bit preoccupied to notice where we were going, and asked me in a wonderfully deep, slightly hoarse-sounding voice if I needed directions to my next class. He nodded once when I said no, and disappeared into the crowd.

I was in a daze when I walked into class, but as the feeling wore off, it was replaced with irritation. Rudeness aside, being brushed off like that just plain stung. I kept my chin up, despite the blush I felt creeping into my cheeks. Taking a deep breath, I willed myself not to look grumpy, and surveyed the room, looking for a seat. I hadn't figured on the flame-haired boy being in such a hurry to get rid of me, and so I was earlier than I'd have liked to be. Only about one third of the seats in the class were full, and that made sitting down dangerous. Another thing I'd learned, in all my experience, was that inadvertently sitting in somebody's chair was not a good way to make friendly conversation. At the very least, they'd be irritated at having to say something, and there really wasn't a graceful way to apologize, stand up, and try to find another seat.

Almost as if to counter-balance the rudeness of my escort, who hadn't even bothered to tell me his name, no less, a friendly-looking girl wearing a long, flowing skirt, a pair of well-loved Birkenstocks, and bottle-green glasses motioned to a seat beside her. I gratefully slid into it with a relieved sigh.

"I'm Stella." I said, smiling in thanks.

"Laura." She smiled back at me, and her smile was the wide, perfect smile of somebody who until recently wore braces. Her hair was a short dark brown fringe that accentuated her long, graceful neck and shoulders. I was willing to bet my favorite new heels that she danced ballet without knowing more than her name. "Don't worry too much about Otis," she dismissed him with a graceful wave of her hand, "He's always like that. Nobody pays any attention to him anymore."

I blushed again, thinking that somebody had seen our interaction, or lack thereof. "So, he's always rude, then?" Instantly I cringed, no need to play catty on the first day, no matter how badly my feelings were hurt.

"No, he's not usually rude." She shook her head with far more energy than I would have attributed somebody with her grace, "He just doesn't… participate." She looked unsure for a moment if that was the right word before deciding it was with a sure little nod. "He's always polite, and once in a while, if something comes along that really catches his attention he can be great to talk to, but it takes a lot to inspire that sort of enthusiasm. So, most of us just forget Otis is there, and when we do remember, we just shake our heads and remind ourselves that he's a little odd."

Her explanation didn't make me forget how badly stung I'd felt, but it did make me feel a little better about whether or not anybody else had seen it. Yet another thing I'd learned is that if the wrong person branded you an outsider, you might as well pack it up and go home. At least he wasn't _that_ guy.

Otis. I said the name to myself. For some reason, I liked having a name to go with the face, and I liked that I wasn't the only person to get stuck with a name that belonged in the first half of the century. Somehow, the decidedly un-beautiful name balanced out the too-beautiful face that owned it.

The two of us chatted easily for a few minutes, and then we were joined by a girl whose gold-blond hair, creamy skin, perfectly symmetrical features, and dark blue eyes made her easily the most beautiful person in the room. She didn't seem to notice that more than one of the guys in the room stopped talking to watch her cross to the seat on Lauren's other side. The girl walked easily, but not with Lauren's grace; if she'd had that, this girl would already have been on the great stages of New York. Lauren introduced her as Elaine, and soon as it was polite to do so, Elaine buried her perfect nose in a book and began to read with obvious relief.

Biology II passed uneventfully; this class seemed a little out of order compared to the one I'd transferred from. I didn't recognize the material they covered today, but if they followed the syllabus, they'd soon be repeating things I'd already learned. As the bell rang, Elaine offered to show me to my next class, which turned out to be Calculus.

Just as Elaine was about to leave for her own class, an excited voice called her name. I was surprised to see the brown boy, Bradley, standing next to her fidgeting with the strap of his brown backpack. "So, you've met Stella? That's cool. I, uh, showed her to the office today, and now here you are showing her to Calculus…" he trailed off, blushing.

Elaine looked at him coolly; to her credit only a very small smirk graced her perfect mouth. "Yes, we have Biology II together first period. I offered to show her the way here." A little mischief danced in her eyes, "I was going to walk her tomorrow, just to make sure she didn't get lost, but maybe you'd like to come get her from our class instead?" Her eyes were wide with innocence, but she had to have known that she'd just made Bradley's day by practically inviting him to visit her.

It was nice to walk into the class already knowing somebody, and within minutes, Bradley had introduced me to his friend David Malcolm. I was happy to find that this class was in the same place I'd been in California, and because math was my worst subject, I was delighted to have made friends with the best two students in the class on the first day.

David was the picture of what we'd called the alpha-geek at my old school. He was skinny with straight pants, ancient red Chuck Taylor's, and a t-shirt advertising some anime I'd never heard of. He was outgoing and sarcastic, and managed to slide a Monty Python reference into the first five minutes of our conversation. He and Bradley, who seemed to be relatively quiet on his own, spoke in some geek code that I couldn't always understand, but made me laugh when I did.

Economics was just across the hall, so I wasn't in need of an escort, but I was pretty sure that if Bradley had known that Lauren and Elaine, more specifically Elaine, was in the class I would have gotten an escort anyway. Lauren looked through the rest of my schedule and offered advice on different teachers, while Elaine who seemed completely absorbed in her book, occasionally offered her opinion, proving that she was paying close attention to the conversation. She seemed excited that we would share fifth period History, and promised me that the class would be interesting.

I found my way to English on my own, wishing I'd come across a snack machine on my way. The scant breakfast I'd eaten this morning was wearing pretty thin, and I decided I was really looking forward to lunch this period. It was on that happy note and with a smile on my face that I walked into the classroom.

When I saw him, I stopped abruptly, the smile falling away from my mouth. If there'd been a smile on his face, which I doubted, it was long gone when I saw him. Our eyes met for a moment, with an almost visible electrical crackle before I raised my chin and continued in to find a seat. As luck, or Otis's appalling manners would have it, all the empty chairs in the classroom were adjacent to his. I picked the one behind him on the right and sat down to fume. I already knew that I didn't share this class with anybody else I'd met, or Laura and Elaine would have told me. Unfortunately, sitting here glowering the way I was wouldn't earn me any new friends. The thought was enough to push my face into a smooth mask. Under the circumstances, it was the best I could do.

Needless to say, I didn't make any new friends before English started, but I was slightly gratified to see that Otis looked as tense as I felt. He never turned around to look at me, but I had the feeling he was aware of every move I made during the entire class. The jerk probably had eyes in the back of his horns.

So, if the company was bad, at least the class looked interesting. The instructor, Mr. Martinez, handed me a well-worn copy of Thomas Hardy's "Return of the Native", a book I'd already read and loved. I decided that reading about poor, doomed Eustacia Vye would probably cheer me up. In fact, her name alone (names worse than mine were rare) made me feel a little happier. I opened the book and scanned through the first chapter; the wild and desolate heath was the sort of place I'd like to visit someday.

Class ended after some reading, some discussion, and a writing assignment, and it was time for lunch. This class was in the last lunch period, and I already knew that I Lauren and Elaine had third lunch, so I wouldn't be able to sit with them. I hoped that I would see David or Bradley, and that they'd have an empty seat they wouldn't mind me taking. I smiled thinking that Bradley would definitely offer me a seat, just so he could talk to me about Elaine.

As luck would have it, neither David nor Bradley was in the cafeteria, so I was on my own. I scanned the landscape for an empty table, and again came up empty. I sighed in frustration, and then I saw him. He was sitting alone at a table, of course, and I decided that since it was his fault I'd been in too bad a mood to find a lunch companion before class he could just deal with sharing a meal with me.

I strode across the room purposefully, sat my plate at the seat in front of him, and sat down before he had time to react. "Hi, I'm Stella, and you would have already known that if you'd said _one_ word to me this morning." I'd meant it to come out slightly teasing, but instead I sounded like an accusation.

"I knew your name when I walked you to class, and I'll bet you knew mine by the end of first period. Introductions seemed unnecessary." His weight shifted forward like he was about to stand.

"Everybody is looking at us. If you get up and walk away now, you'll draw unnecessary attention to yourself," I said calmly, taking a bite of my apple.

Without a sound, he eased back into his seat, but he didn't look happy about it. Several minutes passed as I ate my apple, and Otis didn't move. I'd never seen anybody so still in my life.

"Are you holding your breath?" I asked, unable to keep a slightly nasty edge out of my voice. Being around this guy was definitely bringing out the worst in me.

"Yes. I'm trying to commit suicide with the limited tools at my disposal right now. If you don't stop talking to me, I'm going to have to test the effectiveness of the plastic knife." His voice was less nasty than mine, but it was not at all friendly, either.

"Well, let me know how that turns out. I'll keep your fans," I motioned to the other students around us, "posted on your progress."

He chuckled at that one, and it was a nice throaty sound. Surprisingly, I found myself wanting to hear the laugh more than I wanted to make him scowl. It was still close, though.

"So, have you always lived here?" I asked him conversationally, taking a small bite of my pizza. Every cafeteria I've ever eaten in makes edible pizza and French fries. Everything else is a crap shoot.

"Oh, so we're friends now?" He asked me raising an eyebrow.

"Of course not," I replied acidly, "I'd like for everybody to see me making nice with you, and being pleasant, so that people don't think I'm as socially stunted as you." This was said with a smile, to make it appear to anybody watching, and a few still were, that we were having a normal conversation rather than raking the flesh from one another's bones.

"Well, then, in that case… My name is Otis Wallace, I moved here last year, I'm a Scorpio, and I enjoy amusement parks, ice fishing, and dining with pushy blondes." He smirked in my direction, "Please, tell me all about yourself."

"Fine, I'll play, but only because you asked me so nicely. My name is Stella Bard, I'm also a Scorpio, I live with my aunt, I enjoy art, flamenco dancing, and having bamboo shoots shoved under my fingernails. Lacking the bamboo shoots, I love dining with pushy, sarcastic boys who irritate the crap out of me." I smiled angelically.

"You live with your aunt, eh? Are you one of those problem teenagers whose parents can't cope with them and send them to stay with relatives, then tell people it's because they travel so much and it really isn't fair to keep jerking you out of schools?" He leaned forward, clearly enjoying our verbal sparring.

I, however, was no longer smiling. Tears sprang to my eyes, "My parents are dead, and despite it being unfair to move me somewhere new every six months, they took me everywhere they went." I stood up, and began walking to the door.

"Aw, crap." I heard Otis mutter behind me, the sound of his chair telling me he was following, "Stella, I'm sorry." He walked very close to me; to an outsider, it would look like we were leaving the cafeteria to take a walk together during the remainder of the hour.

We walked down the corridor in silence, and as fast as I walked, he was able to keep up effortlessly, which was just as well, because left to my own devices, I would have wandered aimlessly through the halls. Otis guided me through with a hand on my lower back, until we reached a doorway that led to a wide lawn with a baseball diamond and a small set of bleachers. He gently pushed me forward, until we were safe from prying eyes. My composure lasted only as long as it took him to whisper that it was safe, then the sobs that hadn't come since I'd heard about the accident coursed through my body.

Otis stood less than an arm's span behind from me; I could feel his presence, but he didn't move closer, and he didn't waste breath by murmuring stupid platitudes like it's going to be ok. For some strange reason, that made me feel comforted. When my crying began to subside, I felt his hand on my shoulder. I turned toward him, and he handed me a handkerchief. At any other moment, I'd have laughed at the absurdity of being handed a handkerchief, but in this moment, I was purely grateful that he had something for me to dry my eyes on.

"That was the first time, wasn't it?" His voice was quiet, and strong, and I knew that he was talking about my outburst.

"Yeah," I sniffed, "I was starting to feel inhuman. It's been three weeks since…" I whimpered, and the tears started again, but this time wordlessly.

"The first time's the worst. I'm sorry it was because of me." The apology in his voice was apparant.

"It had to happen sooner or later. I was enjoying myself up until the crying started."

He laughed. "We were arguing viciously and you were _enjoying_ it? Either you're sick, or I'm that bad at it, and it's a miracle I don't have a whole slew of friends."

"Is this the part where I'm supposed to tell you that you aren't the monster you pretend to be?" My face was probably still pretty bleak looking, but resuming our banter was starting to make me smile a little. When I looked at Otis, though, he face was sort of sad looking.

"No, Stella, I am very definitely a monster." He shook his head, almost as though to clear the thought from his mind, "I'm not the boogeyman, though. I don't like to make little girls cry. Or mostly grown ones, for that matter." He hesitated for a moment, "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

I took a deep breath. "There really isn't much to tell. My father, the Major, was in the military, and my mother was the perfect officer's wife. We were the perfect All-American patriotic family; the Major wouldn't have it any other way. We moved a lot. A _lot._" I emphasized, in case he hadn't grasped the point. "The Major was raising me to be superhuman, I think. My whole life has been in preparation for a life in the military. I'm fluent in three languages, I hold a black belt in both Judo and Isshinryu karate, and I took dance for five years. I ride at advanced intermediate level, I have my SCUBA certification, and I can fly a plane. I'm not even eighteen," I laughed bitterly, "and I can fly a plane.

"Anyway, the being the perfect daughter thing was starting to get old, I guess. That's the only reason I can think of for the whole teenage rebellion thing. I dyed my hair, which drove the Major crazy; I refused to take the ASVAB, which made him nearly murderous. We weren't really on speaking terms when he died.

"There was a ball we were supposed to attend," my words came more slowly now that I was getting to the hard part, "It was some diplomat's something or other thing. We had something different every week, and I stopped keeping up a long time ago. Anyway, some of my friends from school had invited me to a concert. I really wanted to go, but my father refused. He told me, 'Duty comes first, then fun.'

"I've put his duties first my whole life. In fact, his duties _were_ my whole life. My _whole_ life. So, I got the scissors and destroyed the gown I was supposed to wear, which is a shame, because it was really pretty, and I was looking forward to wearing it, and we fought like crazy. Finally, they left without me, and the major promised that he was sending me to a military school when they got back, but that never happened."

He'd mentioned his parents, and I wanted to ask him about it, but I hesitated before deciding I had nothing to loose.

He told me that his story was basically the same, minus the three languages and flying lessons, but that his father had outlived the argument and sent him off, like he'd threatened, and that they never got past their resentment of one another, and then his father took ill suddenly and died.

"I tried to forgive him, but the best I can come up with is the knowledge that however big a mistake it turned out to be, my father was doing what he believed was the best thing. He was imperfect, but he was _trying_ to be a good father."

I told him that I wanted to forgive my dad, but that I was having trouble with it.

"Are you still mad at him?" he asked, giving me a long look.

I sighed again, and looked out at the field and though for a long moment before I answered, "Yes. I'm still mad that he couldn't think beyond his own ambitions to give me a chance to find my own. I'm angry that I was too passive-aggressive to just tell him how I felt instead of doing things that I knew would hurt him. I'm pissed off that his quick-fix was to ship me off like a defective appliance, rather than try to make me happy. And, I'm so pissed off that he went and died in the middle of the biggest fight we ever had that I can hardly stand myself.

"And, of course, I feel bad about that." The last a whisper so low I didn't think it was possible for Otis to hear me, but somehow, he did.

"Of course you feel bad about it," he agreed, "You're only human, after all." His voice was low and understanding.

"Being human sucks." I muttered, proud that bitterness only tinged my voice.

"The alternative is worse." He assured me.

I thought about it for a moment before replying, "I'd like to be a jelly fish, 'cause jelly fish don't pay rent."

Otis groaned loudly. "Jimmy Buffett? Really? You're going to quote Jimmy Buffett _right now_?"

"Remember that concert I mentioned?" I said grinning broadly. Just like that, the dark mood passed, at least for the time being.

"Of course you're a parrot-head," he said with a roll of his eyes, "I've known you for an hour, and already you're the most impossible person I've ever met in my life."

"Look who's talking!" I shot back, "You're like social cyanide."

"Oh, I like that one. Mind if I adopt it as my online handle?"

"Be my guest. It suits you," I laughed, really laughed, like I hadn't since before the accident, "Just remember whose idea it was."

"Come on, we'd better head in. I'll even show you to your next class."

"Oh, goody. Will you also pretend I don't exist?" I deadpanned.

"I'll do you one better, Stella," Otis countered, "I'll pretend you're something that needs to be scraped from the bottom of my shoe."

"Sold." I agreed, as we walked companionably toward the building.

As it turns out, Otis and I had fifth period history and sixth period PE together. I was grateful that PE was last; nothing sucked worse than being sweaty and overheated the rest of the day. In history, I chose a seat between Otis and Bradley, and started gabbing, thanking him in advance for helping me find calculus the next morning. He was polite, but even though I'd expected him to jump head first into a conversation about Elaine, he seemed reserved. The dark-haired boy sitting next to him snickered, but when I looked at him, he tried to cover his mouth, and pretend he was coughing.

I was in a social danger zone. On one hand, I was being laughed at, which is never good on the first day, on the other hand, making a big deal about it could make it worse. I was trying to decide how best to proceed, when Lauren floated into the room with an amused expression in her eyes.

"Hey, Stella!" She greeted me warmly, "I was going to introduce you to Bradley's twin brother, Brady, but I see you've already met him. The dork behind him is Matt."

"Sorry, Stella," Brady smiled as he offered his hand, "It just seemed rude to stop you. Also, you can bet I'm going to be giving Bradley a hard time about taking you to class tomorrow."

"Don't worry," Lauren chimed in, seeing the anxious expression in my eyes, "The two of them are always like that. You didn't give him fuel so much as you gave him a new angle on an old story."

I wondered how long Bradley had harboring a not-so-secret crush on Elaine.

"OK, you got me," I smiled and eyed Brady's distinctly non-earth tone jeans, the acid green t-shirt, and black glasses, "But I won't make that mistake again."

"Sure you will," Brady said, his voice teasing, "Bradley and I are alike in every way except our sense of fashion, our interests, and who we hang out with."

"So, you share a last name, and maybe a bedroom?" I asked, playing along with his joke.

"Not much else." Matt chimed in, having gotten over his sudden coughing fit.

We chatted for another few minutes before the bell rang, and Otis was neither a part of the conversation nor separate from it, a concept that puzzled my outgoing brain. He never contributed to the conversation, and didn't seem expected to, but the conversation flowed around him, almost companionably, anyway.

During most of the day, Stella's new teachers had just let her integrate herself into the class; one had introduced her to the other students, but even she hadn't made Stella stand up. Mr. Perrigan, the history teacher, on the other hand made her stand up and answer a bevy of crazy questions.

"Good afternoon," he'd greeted her, "I trust you're enjoying your first day here?"

"Yes, sir," I replied with ease, "So far everybody I've met has been very helpful and friendly." I had no fear of speaking in front of the class, although it was my least favorite way to spend a first day.

"Great. Please introduce yourself, tell us one thing about yourself, and tell me your favorite moment in American history."

I couldn't believe he managed all that with a smile. I took a deep breath, and tried to think of something interesting about myself that didn't seem freakish.

"My name is Stella Bard, my favorite sugar cookies are my favorite, as long as they're soft. If they're hard, I prefer peanut butter, and my favorite moment in history is the caning of Senator Charles Sumner." I started to sit down.

Mr. Perrigan eyed her thoughtfully, "For those you who are unfamiliar with the story, during the debates on whether to admit Kansas to the Union as a free state or a slave state, Senator Sumner delivered a rather passionate speech during which he was very critical of both the Illinois Senator, Stephen Douglas and the Senator from South Carolina, Andrew Butler, who were both supporters of Kansas being admitted as a slave state. One of Senator Butler's contemporaries, Representative Preston Brooks took offense to the speech, and entered the Senate chambers with a cane and beat him half to death with a walking cane. While he didn't die, and eventually recovered enough to resume his seat in the senate, in the northern states, Senator Sumner became a martyr to the cause, and in the South, Representative Brooks received barrels full of walking sticks from his adoring public.

"That is a very Interesting choice, Miss Bard." He finished while the class laughed at the story.

I glanced to my left and noticed that even Otis was smiling, and for some reason that made feel happy.

As much as I enjoy history, I was ecstatic when the bell finally rang. I'd been looking forward to PE since lunch; I hoped that today wouldn't be one of those lame days, like square dancing. I needed some action today, even if it was just running laps around the gym. In the event I was disappointed by the class activity today, I was prepared to stay after school and get to know the track.

Getting to know the track was a game my dad made up when I was little and didn't want to go running. He would tell me that I should get to know every crack and bump in the track, and treat them like old friends. It worked, because for years, I'd jog my laps and say hello to all of the cracks, and even call them by the names I made up for them. When I was struggling for my first mile, I'd remind myself that I had to say hi four times, when I was working my four miles, I'd visit 16 times. I'd stopped talking to the track years ago, but the habit to memorize all the cracks was firmly ingrained in my personality.

I was pleasantly surprised in PE. Ms. Brenner, the tough-looking old bird that ran the class decided to allow a free day; we could to do whatever we wanted, so long as we were moving. I smiled happily at the lack of restrictions, and challenged Otis to a game of one-on-one. We'd barely been playing five minutes when I noticed a group of guys looking longingly in our direction. I suggested we switch to three-on-three, and Otis and I would act as team captains.

The competition was fierce; at least once the walk-ons got the idea that it wasn't a good idea to go easy on my, but no matter how hard I played, Otis was just a little bit better than I was. It was a challenging game, but not so off balance that I felt like victory was forever out of sight. I'd had worse first days, so all in all, I was feeling pretty good about things as I walked back to my car after the last bell rang.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

As always, upon returning to my aunt's house, I stared at it for a long moment before I worked up the courage to open my car door. The house wasn't scary or derelict; it was old, but obviously well-maintained, and it was almost obscenely large. It was done in the Greek revival style, and white columns rose majestically from the wide verandah, soaring up two stories to hold the pediment that was even with the third floor. Dormers peeked out of the roof on either side of the pediment, and an ornate Palladian window looked out onto the widow's walk. The other first and second floor windows were bordered by black shutters, and the house's white paint was fresh. On the porch, a set of white wicker furniture looked as though a lady might step through the doors any moment to serve iced tea to genteel guests.

I sighed as I walked around my car to enter through the side door, this house, however beautiful and welcoming it might seem was not meant to welcome me. I had no place here, except as a temporary boarder.

The interior of the house was surprising. It was no less well-maintained than the immaculate exterior, but its furnishings hadn't been updated since the 1940's. I'd seen a picture once of the living room of Olivia DeHavilland, the actress who played Melanie in "Gone with the Wind", and except for the color scheme, the resemblance to the living room of this house was uncanny. Olivia DeHavilland had decorated in a bold combination of pink and chartreuse; this living room was decorated in chartreuse on every other shade of green. The thick pile carpet was a mossy green; the brocaded draperies were the same color with dark green and gold vines. The furnishings were done in velvet and chintz, and the television was one of those monstrously huge cabinet models that were enclosed in an ornately carved wooden box. Mirrors and shadow boxes full of bric-a-brac adorned the walls, and a metal clock in the shape of a sunburst held the place of honor above the stone fireplace.

When I moved in, none of the rooms' interiors seemed to have been updated since the 1940's, but curiously, the kitchen had, nearly over night, morphed into a Tuscan dream kitchen, with ceramic tile, copper bottomed pans hanging above the stove, racks full of spices, and commercial grade appliances. I would have been ecstatic to have had a kitchen like this at home to cook in, but here, I stuck to eating salad and other raw foods. Still, my fingers itched to take advantage of the new knives, and the fully stocked supplies to make something really great. I knew that resisting was a futile battle that I was bound to lose, but I didn't think today was the day I would give in.

I made my way though the green, green living room and mounted the staircase. The thick carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps, but I still felt the intense loneliness of being in here echo around me. My room was on the third floor of the house, and one of the dormer windows visible from the front was mine.

I loved my room; it was my little sanctuary in this new life. It was done in Art Deco; the walls were a pale tan color with geometric designs painted into it in pastel colors. The bed was a blond oak queen-sized four-poster with Art Deco engravings up and down the massive frame. There was a matching chest of drawers, dresser, and vanity; they were immense, but my room was big enough to keep from feeling cramped. Everything in this room looked to be authentic antiques from the 1920's, but there were enough modern touches for it to feel retro, rather than museum-like. There was a bamboo papa-san chair fitted with a turquoise cushion next to an ultra modern glass and wood bookshelf, and a beautiful modern rug sat atop hardwood floors the same color as the bed. There was a window seat built into the area created by the dormer; it was piled high with pillows a variety of pillows, and gauzy curtains hung framed it, making it seem like its own little magic room. I used the trunk-like storage space under the window seat to hold my family album and other treasures that I wanted near me, but couldn't bear to look at every day.

Two doors, besides the entrance, led out of my room; one to a satisfyingly large and well-stocked closet, the other to a private bathroom. I loved the old-fashioned ceramic tub in my bathroom. It stood on clawed feet, and its austere whiteness matched the white ceramic tile floor. The walls were black, with silver paisley etched into them. A rack held mountains of fluffy silver towels, and a dressing-room style mirror surrounded in lights hung over the vanity. A thickly upholstered black chair sat in front of the mirror, and cunningly hidden cubbies and drawers held a wide assortment of expensive cosmetics and styling tools.

The luxury of my quarters, compared to the lack of welcome confused me. Robert, my ancient aunt's personal secretary, welcomed me to the house when I arrived the week before and showed me to my room. He bustled me through the downstairs quickly, explaining in his cultured British accent, that the sadly out-of-date kitchen was being remodeled and that I should help myself to anything in there. My aunt, he explained, was kept to a diet of simple foods, but she'd asked him to buy some things that he thought I might like when he did the shopping. He would be happy, he said, to pick up anything additional I might need or want when he did the weekly shopping on Friday.

He then showed me to my room, and after pointing out the highlights, gave me the rules of the house.

"Your aunt," he said, "keeps her quarters on the second floor. She is rarely in good health, and it is important not to disturb her at any time. She asked me to make certain you would be comfortable here on the third floor, and of course you are welcome to use the kitchen at anytime. This floor is reasonably sound proof, though as a personal favor, I would ask you not to test that too strenuously. Once your aunt has been awakened, it is very difficult for her to go back to sleep. There is a room at the end of the hallway for recreational use. I have equipped it with a variety of electronic equipment, as well as other gaming devices. I guessed at your tastes, based on the information I was given beforehand, but if there is anything that I've missed, or if something doesn't suit your preference, you have only to ask, and we will change it for you.

Your aunt recognizes that you are only a few months from reaching the age of majority. As such, she doesn't believe it necessary to impose a curfew or any such regulations during your stay. Your aunt spends a great deal of time away at restorative spas. You are welcome to have visitors while she is away; however, she hopes that you will be discreet regarding guests and gentlemen callers.

_Discreet?! _My mind raged, even as it suppressed a fit of giggles at Robert's antiquated use of the words "gentlemen caller". I suppose most teenagers would have wept with joy at the prospect of not having any rules outside of their own good judgment, but I was furious. I'd lost my entire family in an evening's time, and now my last living relative couldn't be bothered to care if I brought the football team home with me for a sleepover, so long as I exercised _discretion_?

As furious as I was, I received the message loudly and clearly; my aunt was fulfilling a duty, and nothing more. There would be no new family to ease the loss of the one I'd lived with my entire life. I was truly an orphan; I just had a nicer foster home than most.

The only person besides the very efficient, very fussy Robert who ever came to the house was Ian, my aunt's nurse. He was fairly young-looking; my guess was about twenty six or twenty seven years old. He reminded me of the actor Cillian Murphy; he was tall and lanky, with pale skin, black hair that was just a little shaggy, and disconcertingly blue eyes that looked even bluer next to his dark blue scrubs. Talking to Ian made me feel vaguely uncomfortable; those blue eyes were too still, but somehow they looked at things with an intensity that seemed as if they could see, not only everything that was happening in the room, but everything that ever _had_ happened in the room. Still, Ian, with the iPod that blared indie rock, and the acid-green MG convertible, and the steel thumb rings, was cool, and once you could get past the eyes, talking to him was nice. He usually made a point of bumping into me regularly, and I figured that at some point today I'd walk into a room he just happened to be in, and he'd ask me about my day.

It was the most companionship I'd seen in three weeks.

When I walked into my room, I threw my rucksack onto the floor and face planted, right on my bed. Keeping my eyes closed, I tugged a pillow out from under the neatly made comforter, and positioned it under my chest and chin. Something, I decided, was still missing, so I grabbed the throw from the foot of the bed and draped it over my head and reveled in the darkness.

I spent about fifteen minutes hiding from the world before I couldn't stand myself anymore, and tossed the throw back to the foot of the bed. Hiding, I thought, probably hadn't done much for me except leave a few pillow-lines on my face and bed that needed to be remade.

After a lifetime of practice, making a bed with military precision took almost no time at all, and when I was done, I decided I needed to find something to keep me busy. I changed out of my school clothes into a pair of baggy cargo pants I kept held around my hips with a thick, black belt, an old blue and red raglan-sleeved Chicago Cubs t-shirt, and a pair of red Chuck Taylor high tops. Not sure what I would find to do, I dumped my books onto my bed, and shoved my baseball glove into my rucksack, alongside my 35 mm Minolta and a couple spare rolls of black-and-white film. I hoped I would stumble upon some sort of ball game, but I was prepared to spend some quality time taking pictures if I didn't.

I ran down the stairs, not caring whether I woke Iris or not, and out the back door, to the garage that held my aunt's antique silver Jaguar and my bicycle. I hadn't ridden in a couple months, so I took a moment to check my tires, breaks, and chain. It was sort of a "pre-flight" checklist my father insisted on whenever I rode as a child. Of course when I got older, I, like every other teenager, started skimping on the safety measures my parents insisted on and it became a once a month sort of thing. I decided that the rear tire needed a little air and the chain might use a bit of oil, so I started snooping around the garage for the tools I needed for the maintenance. The tools I found on the workbench in the garage were old, just like everything else in the house, but the air pump worked well, and I was kind of enthralled with the oil can that looked like a brass version of the one Dorothy used in The Wizard of Oz. When I was done, I threw my leg over the seat and pedaled down the driveway.

I decided to head back toward the school, thinking about the baseball diamond where I'd had my little meltdown with Otis. I refused to let myself dwell on the crying jag, but I did think a little about Otis. I'd been convinced that he was a complete, grade A ass just that morning, and now, I felt pretty sure we would be friends. If I were completely honest with myself, I was a heartbeat away from writing his name all over my notebook, figuratively speaking. Somehow, I couldn't bring myself to feel bad about the possibility of a little crush.

As I'd hoped, there was a game starting at the field when I got there. The players were a mix of people from junior high to retirement age, and a festive air surrounded the diamond as family members who'd opted out of playing cheered from lawn chairs set up along the base line. Several of them had blankets, so it looked like they expected the game to outlast the brilliant sunshine that beat down upon the field. Children too young to for the game played wiffle ball nearby, and a few of the adults were dragging ice chests and a portable grill out of the back of a pickup truck. I recognized Brady and Bradley from school, as well as Elaine, and a girl with short, choppy dyed black spikes was introduced as Dana. The four of us ended up on a team together, and I was glad to be cheering for the people I knew game was alternatively fast-paced and slow, depending on who was pitching and who was batting, and good-natured rivalries that had lasted for years were bantered back and forth across the team lines. I played well; two runs batted in and on a hard line-drive up the middle, the outfielders had a Marx brothers moment that allowed me to slide in a lucky home run, and the kids, after much rehearsal, serenaded us with a round of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the seventh inning stretch.

The game lasted until dusk, then hot dogs went onto the charcoal grill, sacks of chips were torn open by ravenous players, and satisfying "spsh" sounds followed by thirsty gulps echoed around the field as pop cans were opened. The food was simple, but after an afternoon of ball, the impromptu barbeque was practically gourmet.

After I'd eaten my fill, I took my camera from my bag, and began to snap photos of the rest of the group. I've always tended to prefer candid shots of a group, rather than staged poses where everybody says, "Cheese!", so I stuck to the perimeter of the group and tried not to draw attention to myself. I felt like some of the shots were really going to be great after I developed them, and I made a mental note to give Dana a copy of one that I took of her and Brady sitting very close, their arms draped around their knees, looking like they were sharing a secret. If the volume at which she'd cheered him versus the volume she used for everybody else was any indication, she'd appreciate it.

Along the far edge of the ballpark was a fairly dense tree line, and a beautiful old oak tree dominated it like the king on against a row of pawns. I was afraid in the time it would take to make my way across the field the light would change, and I couldn't help but take a picture of tree, so I switched to my telescopic lens, hoping that I would really be able to see the texture of the bark, even at this distance.

I held the camera to my eye, and began to adjust my focus, and as I did, a blur in the branches resolved itself into Otis.

I knew it was impossible at this distance, but he seemed to be looking me in the eyes, and before I could wonder what he was concentrating on so intently, I motioned him over to the now-mellow group behind me. Impossibly, he shook smiled and shook his head once. I straightened and looked around, trying to see what he could have been looking at, but there was nothing but a wide green field between us. I put my eye back to the viewfinder, determined to figure out what he was looking at from that distance, but he was gone.

**Author's Note:** Wow, I didn't think I was ever going to get this chapter done. It's short, but chalk full of the things that are getting us through the next eight or so chapters. A lot of this chapter really depended on me knowing exactly where things were going, and a lot of that depended on having certain things nailed down about the characters and their backgrounds, and... oh, lots of things. So, it took about a month to get Chapter Two done, but I have a lot of the story wrapped up now. I think this will weigh in at about ten chapters; I can't imagine it getting past twelve chapters, but I figure most of them will more closely resemble Chapter 1 in length.

A lot of this chapter reminded me of my own suburban childhood in Chicago. We used to have ball games like the ones I described; and we probably cooked out more often than we cooked in, and baseball was like oxygen. Harry Carey was my hero, and no baseball game is complete without Take Me Out to the Ballgame during the seventh inning stretch for those of you who aren't familiar with this tradition, this is how the song is sung in Wrigley Field:

Take me out the ball game,

Take me out to the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks,

I don't care if I never get back,

So it's root, root, root for the Cubbies!

If they don't win it's a shame.

For it's one, two, three strikes you're out at the old Cubs game!

Please read, please review, and please, please, please point out any improvements I can make to my writing!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The next morning, I awoke with a smile for the first time since moving to Escanaba. I was fairly certain that my friendship with Lauren, Bradley, and Brady had been cemented during the baseball game yesterday. In a way, it had felt like the four of us had always played ball together; almost like I'd grown up with them. It was the first time I began to understand the sense of belonging that my nomadic upbringing had denied me. I'd always enjoyed moving to the next place, but I was pretty happy to know I'd be here almost a whole year before I went off to college. My Aunt Iris's house didn't feel like home, but maybe Escanaba itself _could_.

I hummed a bit to myself while I got ready. I considered toning my clothing down to jeans and a shirt to blend in a bit more, but, when I looked at the clothes lying on the bed, I just couldn't make myself put them on. They would be fine for after school, like yesterday, but, I decided I _liked _looking really nice for school.

This new-found vanity was sort of a shock to me; the only reason I'd started dressing up was to fit in back in San Diego, where even the slacker kids looked like they stepped out of a fashion magazine. Before then, I'd never really paid special attention to my appearance; I usually pulled my hair into a ponytail, and wore a lot of jeans and t-shirt combinations.

Today, I dug out of pair of once-black jeans that had faded into a dark grey, a white tank top, and a black tie-back vest. I slid a pair of heeled black loafers onto my feet, and went to the bathroom vanity to contemplate my hair. I opted to pull it up into a messy bun, with little tendrils of color escaping from it to frame my face. As always, that lock of hair over my right eye fell loose and staked its territory. A bit of eyeliner and lip gloss went in the proper spots, and I went back into my room to find some accessories that would keep the clothes I wore fun and maybe a little flirty. What I needed, I decided was some color.

Because of my tendency to over organize, a gift from the Major, I had several jewelry boxes lined up across my dresser; one for each type of jewelry I owned. I selected a long strand of brilliantly colored glass beads that I could wear wrapped twice around my neck, an armload of bangle bracelets, my watch, which I wore religiously, and some long dangly earrings. On my right ring finger I wore a silver ring set with a geometric piece of highly polished red jasper, on my left middle finger I wore a large piece of lapis lazuli, its color the same as the blue that sits atop the reds and golds of a clear sunset.

On each thumb, I wore a thick silver ring, they were both highly polished, and the band was rounded. Each bore the legend, in elegant black engraving, "This too shall pass." My parents had given them to each other during a rocky period early in their marriage as sort of encouragement to one another. I kept the rings when I buried my parents, and was never without them. I'd had to fit the major's ring with a spacer, so that it fit, but even when I didn't wear them on my hands, I wore them on a chain around my neck.

So sunny was my mood after I dressed, that I skipped down the stairs and decided to make use of the Tuscan dream kitchen that had been going to waste since its installation. An omelet sounded heavenly after three weeks of dry cereal, and I hoped I'd be able to find the ingredients I needed in the fridge.

In only a few minutes, the smell of cooking eggs, vegetables, ham, and cheese filled the room, and remembering that Ian usually arrived while I was eating in the mornings, I decided to go out on a limb and make one for him, as well.

I heard Ian before he careened into the driveway on two wheels. The distinctive sound of his MG's motor combined with the always loud music was hard to miss, and I'd come to wonder what kind of dirt my aunt had on the neighbors that they didn't call in a noise complaint every day when he came to work.

"Wow. Smells good in here!" Ian greeted me, "I'm glad you aren't still fasting."

"I was never fasting, and I made one for you, too." I said pushing the plate toward him.

"Dry cereal out of the box for breakfast and celery and carrot sticks for dinner for three weeks is practically the same thing," he laughed as he grabbed a fork and climbed onto a stool, "I'm not complaining, because this tastes great, but why the change of heart?"

I was standing on the other side of the bar from him, eating my own omelet and I leaned onto my elbows while I thought it over before I replied, "I had a good day yesterday."

"You mean at school? I never had high school days good enough to make me want to cook breakfast." I could tell he was teasing, but he was also looking for more information.

"Not school," I said rolling my eyes, "I found some friends and their families _after _school and we played baseball and had a cookout."

"And you're trying to even out your karma by cooking for somebody else?"

"No, dork, I just feel like even if I'm not really welcome _here_, at least maybe I can make the town feel like home."

"Stella, you shouldn't assume that your aunt doesn't want you here. She's old and sick, and she just wants to sit in her room and wait to die."

"Ian, she wasn't even here until last week! She's never met me, let alone spoken to me," I protested, "I am definitely not welcome here."

"Stella, you're always welcome here," he touched my hand and gave me that intense look of his for just a moment before he took his empty plate to the dishwasher, "Tell you what, if you don't find another pick up game tonight, we'll go get a pizza. My treat. I know a great little hole in the wall."

"You don't have to feel sorry for me Ian," I protested. He laughed, "I feel less sorry for you than I probably should. You cooked for me this morning, so it's my turn tonight, but I'm a lot better at finding veins than cooking."

"OK, then," I smiled, "If I don't find a pick-up game, I'll go."

He paused thoughtfully for a moment, "If you do find one, you could always bring your friends and eat after."

"I'll think about it," I promised, "But I have to go right now, or I'm going to be late."

"Stella, class doesn't start for thirty minutes. You're going to be on time."

"If you're early you're on time. If you're on time, you're late." The saying, one of the major's favorites, was an automatic response, drilled in over years of conditioning.

Ian picked up his bag and headed further into the house at the same time I picked up mine and headed out.

"You know, Stella, you are seriously messed up." He called over his shoulder.

For some reason, that made my day even better.

**

At school, I parked and headed into the building. Today, I could feel the first stirrings of autumn in the air, and it reminded me that I would have to go shopping soon for a coat and winter wear, of which I had absolutely nothing. I had my old army coat, which was great for after school, but it was definitely not something I'd want to wear all the time.

As luck would have it, I spotted Otis almost as soon as I walked through the doors. He had his back turned my way, so I called him, just as the doors swung shut behind me. He stiffened and seemed about to run, almost like he did yesterday in the cafeteria. I guessed he was a little jumpy, but I was glad at least we were past him wanting to dodge me.

"Stella, hey," he spoke so quickly it all came out as one word, "I have to go, but I'll see you later in class, ok?"

Then, he turned and hurried down the hall. I worried that he would trip over his own feet and fall, he went so fast, but he disappointed me by moving with that rangy, wolf-like grace that he always seemed to exude.

Dejectedly, I made my way to my first class, and sat down in the same seat I'd sat in the day before, next to Lauren.

"Heya, slugger," she greeted me, "Elaine, did I tell you that Stella scored the most entertaining home run anybody's seen in ages?" "A couple times," she replied, without looking up, "but if you want to tell me again about Joe Hamilton staring at her so hard he didn't notice the ball hitting him in the arm, Nick Schroeder running headlong into him when he went for it, and the two of them rolling around on the ground trying to strangle each other I'd love to hear it."

"Ok, so maybe I _have_ told it a few times," Lauren grudgingly admitted, "But it was the _funniest_ thing!"

"I'm sure it was," Elaine looked up from her book, "But, I'm even more sure that the reason you've told me half a dozen times is because of Nick"

Lauren scowled so fiercely that I knew Elaine was right.

"Ooh, who's Nick?" I asked, trying to conjure a face. I hadn't really noticed Lauren acting as though she was interested in any one particular person on the field.

"Nick Schroeder," Elaine actually _closed_ her book, is Lauren's next-door neighbor, who she's had a crush on since she was four.

"Really? What year is he?" I asked, interested.

"He graduated two years ago." Lauren sounded a little miserable about that.

"So, he's a grown up, you practically are," I smirked as I dodged the pen cap Lauren threw at me, "What's the problem?"

"The problem is that Lauren can't unglue her lips to let him know she's interested. She can flirt with any guy except the one she wants, apparently." Elaine opened her book again, but she didn't start reading.

Lauren moaned and put her head down on her arms. I couldn't be sure, but it sounded like she said, 'I suck' into her folded arms.

"No way, we're going to fix this," I said, "Besides, it'll give me something to do besides obsess over what's wrong with Otis."

"I heard you two looked awfully cozy down by the baseball field," Lauren brightened, while Elaine went back to reading, "What happened?"

"I don't know," I chewed my lower lip thoughtfully, "yesterday before lunch he seemed to hate me, then… Well, I though we were going to be friends, but this morning, he couldn't get away from me fast enough. He just said he'd see me in History and ran."

"If it was any other guy, I'd say it was weird," Lauren mused, "But Otis is kind of weird to start with, so maybe that's just normal for him. At least he said he see you later, right?" "Lauren, he can't help but see me later, we have class together." I reminded her.

"Yeah," Elaine chimed in thoughtfully, "But a lot of people have a class with Otis, and he doesn't say anything to them."

"I don't even think he knows the names of more than ten or fifteen kids, Stella, but on your second day, he's talking to you." Lauren agreed.

Disappointingly, class started then, before I could try to pump them for more dirt on Otis and his odd, antisocial behavior. Was it really so unusual for him to talk to somebody during lunch?

And why did I feel a little thrill when she said that?

I thought about it during the Biology instead of paying attention to the lecture, which I was pretty sure I would regret later, and I didn't like the obvious conclusion.

I _liked_ Otis. I'd dated a few guys before, in my other schools, but I'd never really gotten the feeling in the bottom of my stomach when I was with them that just thinking about Otis gave me. Maybe it was unusual for Otis to be as social toward me as he was in just two days, but it was also unusual for me to daydream about a wolf-like boy with golden eyes.

This, I was afraid, would not end well.

**

The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of obsession. I couldn't wait for English; a part of me hoped that when I saw Otis I would snap out of it and go back to normal, but a part of me enjoyed the feeling.

On the other hand, all of me was terrified that he was going to ignore me completely.

It was strange to me how quickly this had happened; with the guys I'd dated before, I'd never experienced anything that was even a tenth of this. In fact, neither of them had ever meant enough to find their way into my thoughts when I wasn't with them, or even when I was, sometimes.

I'd had fun with them, when we'd gone out, usually with a group of friends, but I'd never thought of it as anything other than something to do on a Friday night. I wouldn't necessarily, I decided, call this fun. I grimaced at myself in the mirror of the ladies room. I couldn't come up with any excuse to still be in the bathroom nearest my history class except the obvious: I was too chicken to go and face the music. As much as I really wanted to see Otis, I wasn't sure enough of his reaction to seeing me to go there straight away.

Wait a minute, I thought to myself. Since when am I afraid of anything? I simultaneously blushed and ground my teeth in frustration. I. Will. Not. Be _that_ girl, I swore to myself.

I strode from the room so quickly it was almost marching and kept going until I made to the door to the history classroom.

The first thing I saw as I looked into the room was Otis. Our eyes met, and the whole world seemed to skip a beat. He broke into a big grin when reality took over again, that almost looked as relieved as I felt. Neither of us had broken eye contact, and he filled so much of my vision that I didn't see the backpack sitting in the aisle between the desks. I lurched forward, and fell into my seat, which effectively ended our eye contact and the confidence that had flooded my chest when Otis smiled.

"Hey," he said, as I took a seat beside him, "Did you have a nice trip?"

"Yeah, I'd take it again." I mumbled, turning firehouse red.

Otis snickered a little, but busied himself with getting his notes ready for class. I suspected he was just giving me a moment to compose myself, which I appreciatively used to take deep breaths while pretending to study the text.

I wanted to talk to him, but my tongue seemed to have swollen to at least twice its usual size, so I settled for shooting him furtive glances out of the corner of my eye, to which, I was glad to note, he seemed oblivious. This, I felt sure, was karma kicking me in the pants for finding amusement in Lauren's situation.

Class passed much the same way; Otis paying attention to the teacher, me paying attention to Otis. I didn't waste time by just gazing at him; even infatuated there was purpose behind my actions. I spent the time really studying him, learning about him. I was familiar with his appearance; I already appreciated the beauty of his amber eyes and his red-gold hair. Today, I learned about the strength in his jaw, and the character in his face, which seemed as if it had weathered tough times. I memorized the thick ropes of veins that crossed the back of his hands, and disappeared beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and I studied the set of his shoulders; most of the guys I knew slouched, at least a little, but Otis held himself straight and tall, which the major would have appreciated.

Otis, I decided, was unlike anybody I'd ever met before. We both carried the mark of our fathers' actions, but we carried them differently. He chose stillness and solitude, while I craved companionship and action. Still, I thought it was that sameness, not his looks, that made me feel so deeply drawn to him.

Finally, it was time for lunch, and we walked in a companionable silence down the hallways to the cafeteria, where I filled a tray with some edible-looking chicken strips, French fries, and cake. When I reached what I now considered "our" table, Otis was already waiting for me with a can of Pepsi sitting open in front of him.

"That stuff'll rot your teeth." I told him, motioning to the blue can, "I never touch it."

"I'm sure I'll survive," he said, with his typical lazy sarcasm, "Drink enough of that milk, and you might be able to survive one or two of them, too."

"That milk is what makes me big and strong enough to beat you today in gym class," I countered.

"Oh?" he asked, with theatrical surprise, "In that case, you should definitely drink up. In fact," he produced a dollar bill and dropped it onto my tray, "The next round's on me."

"I tell you what," I said, tucking the money into my pocket, "After I beat you class today, you can take it and buy your own milk."

"Sure," he countered with a gleam in his eyes, "And when I win again today, you can take it and buy a Pepsi."

"Deal." I said, holding out my hand to seal our silly bet.

After a brief moment of hesitation, he took it and shook it once. The smugness I felt in that moment of hesitation evaporated at the touch of his hand. It was cold, colder than I would have guessed holding onto the Pepsi would have made it, but it wasn't the temperature of his hand that filled my attention. It was the jolt of adrenaline that I felt when he touched me. It was the most powerful rush I'd ever felt, and it took every ounce of control I'd cultivated during my lifetime to stay in my chair. If we'd been on the court right then, I have no doubt I would have been able to slam dunk the ball, if we'd been on the track, I could have set a new record. For the first time, I understood the reason thrill junkies jump out of planes, or off buildings.

After that, conversation was limited at best. I couldn't make my heart slow down, nor could I lower its thunderous volume. I knew it was silly to think that he could hear my heart from across the table, but the anxious glances he kept shooting at me made me wonder if he suspected that it was thumping along at nearly twice its normal speed.

Several minutes later, when my heart rate finally began to decelerate, I noticed Otis becoming correspondingly less tense.

"You ok?" I asked him, desperate for something to break the silence. He looked puzzled, and then his face broke into his easy grin.

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

"You just looked a little… tense." I trailed off sheepishly.

Otis barked a short laugh, "_I_ look tense? You should see the look on your face. I thought your head was going to explode, or something. Any chance you're going to tell me why?"

It took me about half a second to decide I needed to get out of there before I made an even bigger fool out of myself. I stood abruptly, picking up my nearly untouched tray.

"I have to go." I said, between clenched teeth, "I'll see you in history."

"Sure, Stella," he said as innocently as he could, "I'll see you in history."

Once I was on my feet, my heart began to hammer against my ribs again, as I forced myself to walk at a regular pace to the garbage disposal, then out the double doors that led to the hallway.

I felt overcome, but I had no idea why. I wanted to sit and stand at the same time. I wanted to run, but I also wanted to hide under a heap of blankets. My insides felt like they were shaking apart, but my mind was calm. It was exactly the sensation the Major had described when he spoke of being in battle. He'd said that the life threatening nature of war made your body revolt against reason, but discipline made your mind able to rule over it. Those moments of intense clarity, he'd said, were your reward for the dedication necessary to cultivate that kind of discipline. In the major's case it had saved his life.

In my case, it sealed my fate.

I had never felt anything as powerful and addictive as this feeling, and I knew I was lost to it. I wondered, with one little corner of my adrenaline-induced super-brain, if this is what love actually felt like. Instantly, a different little corner insisted that I could not possibly be in love with Otis. Yet.

Neither English nor History was as eventful as lunch had been. I was already reading when Otis walked into our English classroom, but I felt compelled to look up just as he walked into the door. Our eyes met, and Otis smiled that long smile of his, but instead of the adrenaline rush I was both dreading and anticipating, my only reaction was a faint blush.

Though I enjoyed the downtime from my near-constant sparring with Otis, by the time the end of fifth period rolled around, I was starting to feel a little restless. When the bell finally rang, Otis and I looked at each other, and then simultaneously burst from our seats, not quite racing to the gym, but still going as fast as we could without being called down for running.

I changed clothes as fast as I could, thankful that my hair was already up today, and that I wouldn't have to take the time to get it out of my way. I spent just a few moments stretching, knowing that if I didn't do it in the locker room, it wasn't going to happen.

Otis was, predictably, already waiting for me with a basketball in one hand.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he challenged, almost taunting me. "You could just drink the Pepsi and save yourself the trouble."

"Otis," I said in a sweet voice, "There is not a chance in hell I'm going to let you out of drinking that nice, cold, carton of milk at lunch tomorrow."

He barked a laugh at me, and headed onto the court. "Ladies first," he said with a smirk, as he checked the ball to me.

"With pleasure," I replied, in the same sweetly sarcastic tone I'd used earlier, and the game began.

We played hard, and none of our effort was wasted on conversation. The only sounds were the pounding of the ball, our shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor, the occasional grunt of exertion, and, after a few minutes, the cheering of a group of our classmates when one of us scored.

The pace of our game was grueling, and I was glad that we were able to commandeer half of the court to play one-on-one. From what I'd seen of the other guys' abilities on the court yesterday, I knew that playing three-on-three would have ground the pace of the game down considerably.

The game was fairly evenly matched; neither of us ever scored two points in a row, and it was luck that when the whistle blew, a few minutes early, that I happened to be in the lead. I only gloated a little at my victory, but Otis's expression was rocky at best. Geez, I thought to myself, you'd think the bet was a bottle of vinegar, not a single carton of milk. He must really hate the stuff, I thought, surprised. I'd always thought people who didn't drink milk grew up stunted, but there was nothing stunted about the boy. Maybe the Major hadn't been entirely truthful on that one.

His expression had faded into acceptance by the time we made our way to the bleachers. I lounged with my back against the row of bleachers behind me, like most of the kids in class, but Otis sat rigidly a foot or so to my right while Ms. Brenner explained the rules of tennis, which we would be starting the next day, to the class.

I wasn't terribly surprised when Otis and I were assigned to play singles opposite one another for the tennis section. Ms. Brenner had explained that she would be assigning teams based on our athletic acumen, and Otis and I seemed to be better gifted in that department than most of the class. I was glad that the number of kids in our class had allowed for one pair of singles, while the rest of the class played doubles. Both of us were good athletes and highly competitive, so at least our matches wouldn't be boring.

After class ended, I took a longer than usual in the shower, enjoying the hot water against my tired muscles. Since it was the end of the day, and I didn't have any place to be immediately, I took a the extra time to blow my hair dry and reapply my makeup, though I usually didn't bother at the end of the day.

By the time I left the locker room, the gym was silent, and only one light shone down upon the hardwood floor. I refused to hurry across the floor to the door, but in the semi-darkness I began to feel the stirrings of fear tracing through my system. My footsteps echoed loudly across the room and I imagined my heartbeat did too.

I took a deep breath and forced my stride to remain even, but my senses were on red alert, and my mind began screaming at me to run. Silly though I knew it was, I couldn't help but wonder if this was what the girls in the horror movies felt like just before the psycho killer jumped out from behind a door.

I was only a dozen steps from the door, and starting to feel sheepish about my bizarre reaction to a dark gym when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I whirled to face my attacker, panic held at bay by discipline, but my hands met with empty air.

"Paranoid, much?" a lazy voice taunted me from near the now-closed wooden bleachers. Otis pushed away from the wall of polished wood and strode toward me.

I sagged a little with as he walked toward me with that wolf-like grace that I enjoyed watching a little too much for my own good.

"What are you still doing here?" I asked, changing the subject without much skill.

"I looked for you after class, but you never made it out of the locker room. Seemed like the chivalrous thing to stand watch."

"Yeah, right. You're social cyanide, remember? Social cyanide doesn't care about things like chivalry."

"Fine, then," he said, without a hint of apology in his voice, "I was in detention, which ended about eight minutes ago, and I was just leaving through the same door."

He now held that same door open for me to pass, and I walked into the remnants of a day that milky and colorless. The breeze that passed over my arms wasn't exactly cold, but it was a reminder that I'd be needing that winter coat soon.

"Are you worried about the History exam tomorrow?" I asked as the gravel of the parking lot crunched beneath my feet.

"Not too much. It's a strong subject for me." we walked a few steps further before Otis asked me whether I was ready for the test. Polite conversation with Otis had a tendency to be an afterthought.

"Yeah, kind of. I mean, I'd feel better if I'd been in the class longer than two days." I admitted.

"History is history. It doesn't change with geography." Otis pointed out, just a little shy of condescending.

"Yeah, I figured that out," I shot back, "But I know from experience that different teachers test differently. They stress different moments in history, gloss over different stuff. There's a lot more history than any one teacher puts in the curriculum, you know."

"Yes, I do, actually. Which is why I was going to offer to help you study."

I stopped short, suspicious. Well, suspicious, with a little, tiny flower of hope.

"What's the catch." Suspicion won, or at least had a head start.

"Why would you think there's be a catch?" Otis leveled his gaze at me, and it took me a second to remember that I was supposed to be coming up with a reply, not staring at his unusually colored eyes. He mistook my silence for incredulity starting to give way to anger, "I have yet to do anything to take advantage of you, or be purposefully hurtful, nor have I tried to extort you in any way." "Otis, thanks, I'd love your help," I interrupted his tirade before he could get really wound up, "It would be… helpful." I finished lamely.

"Oh, well, sure." He seemed as shocked by my acceptance of his offer as I felt to receive it.

"If you wanted, you could come over for dinner, say seven o'clock , and we could study after."

"I, uh, already have dinner plans," he said, looking slightly off to his left, "Family." His assurance was hasty, and probably truthful, but there was something he didn't want me to know.

We agreed on 8 o'clock then, at my place, and I scrawled my address and cell number on a corner of his notebook.

After we parted in the parking lot, I decided to take a drive through town to see what kind of shops lined the old commercial center of town. I've nothing against big-box retailers, but I rarely find anything I'd like to wear in them. Boutiques, consignment shops, and old-fashioned department stores usually were more my style.

Luckily, Escanaba had already had the reawakening that so many American Main Streets have been experiencing over the past decade or so, and there were several promising-looking shops in the old and character-filled red brick buildings. I parked on the town square, and walked up the side walk, looking into the plate glass windows of a jewelry and flower shop and a bakery before I found a promising looking consignment shop.

Madam's Consignment was, by my estimation, a treasure trove. Clothing racks lined the walls and several carousels held coats and dresses. There were long racks of shoes and hats and handbags, along with other odds and ends.

Madam's tended to favor much older clothes, but all of it was clean and in good repair. I wandered over to a rack of coats and began to browse. A red knee-length pea coat drew my attention, and after trying it on, I decided I was in love. A quick look at the price tag made me reassess the depth of my feelings. It was not necessarily out of my price range, but it was more expensive than I'd anticipated.

"If you buy that coat, I'm going to insist that you buy the hat and gloves I wore with it, dear."

The voice belonged to an old woman, tiny, even by my standards. She walked with a surprisingly spry step to the hat rack and came back with a red pill box hat with a face net and a pair of white wrist-length kid gloves. I was in love all over again, even before I tried them on.

"Wow." I said, as I got a look at myself in the mirror, "They're fabulous, but I don't know where I'd wear them."

"It takes courage to wear something so bold," the woman agreed, standing next to me, "That's the problem with today's fashions; they're safe and, frankly, boring. Vivian Leigh would never have worn jeans and a t-shirt on a date."

She leveled a steely gaze on me, in case I'd missed the point, "You don't wait for an event to wear something like that. Life _is_ an event, and everybody else is underdressed."

I couldn't help but smile at the feisty woman. I imagined her young, and hiding under her wrinkles and age I found signs of great beauty. Surely, I decided, in her youth she and I had been of similar height, and probably build, too. I was certain that when she'd worn this coat to dinner, people stopped to watch her make her way across the room.

"I'm Stella Bard," I said, holding out my hand, "I just moved here."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Miss Bard." She took my hand, not in a handshake, like I was used to, but in a gentle grasp, "I am Miss Caroline Roberts."

"Well, Miss Caroline," said with a smile, "I'm afraid I was raised in the culture of jeans and t-shirts. What kind of shoes does a girl wear with this coat?"


End file.
